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Отпътуване
Време е да кажа две неща:
1) Ще има история – или история в историята…
2) Това ще е последната ми книга.
Роман за любовта, за срещите и сбогуванията, които съпътстват живота ни, и за изменчивата природа на човешката памет.
„Отпътуване“ разказва историята на Стивън и Джийн, които се влюбват, когато са млади, разделят се и отново се влюбват след десетилетия. Това е и историята на един стар Джак Ръсел териер, блажено несъзнаващ своята смъртност. Както и игрив размисъл за преживяванията ни, които избледняват, превръщат се в истории, а после в спомени. Важно ли е дали това, което помним, наистина се е случило точно така? Или е по-важно, че е било достатъчно значимо, за да не го забравим?
Забележителна със своята интелектуална изтънченост и игра между знание и емоция, последната книга на големия английски писател Джулиан Барнс е посветена на единствените неща, които наистина имат значение: как намираме щастие в този живот и кога идва моментът да кажем „сбогом“.
1) Ще има история – или история в историята…
2) Това ще е последната ми книга.
Роман за любовта, за срещите и сбогуванията, които съпътстват живота ни, и за изменчивата природа на човешката памет.
„Отпътуване“ разказва историята на Стивън и Джийн, които се влюбват, когато са млади, разделят се и отново се влюбват след десетилетия. Това е и историята на един стар Джак Ръсел териер, блажено несъзнаващ своята смъртност. Както и игрив размисъл за преживяванията ни, които избледняват, превръщат се в истории, а после в спомени. Важно ли е дали това, което помним, наистина се е случило точно така? Или е по-важно, че е било достатъчно значимо, за да не го забравим?
Забележителна със своята интелектуална изтънченост и игра между знание и емоция, последната книга на големия английски писател Джулиан Барнс е посветена на единствените неща, които наистина имат значение: как намираме щастие в този живот и кога идва моментът да кажем „сбогом“.
168 pages, Paperback
First published January 17, 2026
535 people are currently reading
8653 people want to read
About the author
Julian Barnes
155 books6,886 followersJulian Patrick Barnes is an English writer. He won the Man Booker Prize in 2011 with The Sense of an Ending, having been shortlisted three times previously with Flaubert's Parrot, England, England, and Arthur & George. Barnes has also written crime fiction under the pseudonym Dan Kavanagh (having married Pat Kavanagh). In addition to novels, Barnes has published collections of essays and short stories.
In 2004 he became a Commandeur of L'Ordre des Arts et des Lettres. His honours also include the Somerset Maugham Award and the Geoffrey Faber Memorial Prize. He was awarded the 2021 Jerusalem Prize.
In 2004 he became a Commandeur of L'Ordre des Arts et des Lettres. His honours also include the Somerset Maugham Award and the Geoffrey Faber Memorial Prize. He was awarded the 2021 Jerusalem Prize.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 240 reviews
November 24, 2025
Julian Barnes mentions two things at the beginning of his latest book: there will be a story – or a story within a story – but not just yet; and this will be his last book.
As promised, there is indeed a story that might be fiction, or may be autobiographical, but most certainly is metafiction. There is a beginning to the story and an ending, but there is no middle. It is flawed story, fleshed out by three overlapping memories – the author’s (or the character named Julian Barnes who stands in for the author) and the man and woman whose relationship he narrates – two individuals he met at university in the 1960s. And in the middle, there is a black gaping hole where none of them had contact with the other two.
Although Julian Barnes had promised his friends – Jean and Steven – that he would never appropriate their story, he does. He waits until they die and assuages his conscience by doing so. But Departures isn’t about them – not really. Memories shift and deceive with time. It forces writers to reinvent and rework.
As he nears 80 years old, a loyal reader of his works can almost feel him questioning his legacy. A song from the Broadway play Hamilton popped into my mind: “Why do you write like you’re running out of time?” Barnes would no doubt answer, “Because I am.” He does not flinch in writing about his manageable but incurable blood cancer, his increasing frustration with age-related memory lapses. There are ghosts of his other extraordinary books: Tony Webster in The Sense of an Ending revising his estimation of his place in the world; Levels of Life, a discourse on love and sorrow on the loss of his wife Pat Kavanaugh; or The Lemon Table and his mediations on growing old.
Now it’s real, and this may (or may not) be this great author’s endgame and his farewell. I will say this: for those of us who are more than casual readers of an author, an invisible bond begins to grow between us and them, even though we have never met them or spoken to them. We don’t know if this is truly Julian Barnes last book, but when he says, “I shall miss you,” it feels real. And corny though it sounds, I cried as if I had lost a friend. My thanks to Alfred A. Knopf for enabling me to be an early reader and reviewer of an all-time favorite author in exchange for an honest review.
As promised, there is indeed a story that might be fiction, or may be autobiographical, but most certainly is metafiction. There is a beginning to the story and an ending, but there is no middle. It is flawed story, fleshed out by three overlapping memories – the author’s (or the character named Julian Barnes who stands in for the author) and the man and woman whose relationship he narrates – two individuals he met at university in the 1960s. And in the middle, there is a black gaping hole where none of them had contact with the other two.
Although Julian Barnes had promised his friends – Jean and Steven – that he would never appropriate their story, he does. He waits until they die and assuages his conscience by doing so. But Departures isn’t about them – not really. Memories shift and deceive with time. It forces writers to reinvent and rework.
As he nears 80 years old, a loyal reader of his works can almost feel him questioning his legacy. A song from the Broadway play Hamilton popped into my mind: “Why do you write like you’re running out of time?” Barnes would no doubt answer, “Because I am.” He does not flinch in writing about his manageable but incurable blood cancer, his increasing frustration with age-related memory lapses. There are ghosts of his other extraordinary books: Tony Webster in The Sense of an Ending revising his estimation of his place in the world; Levels of Life, a discourse on love and sorrow on the loss of his wife Pat Kavanaugh; or The Lemon Table and his mediations on growing old.
Now it’s real, and this may (or may not) be this great author’s endgame and his farewell. I will say this: for those of us who are more than casual readers of an author, an invisible bond begins to grow between us and them, even though we have never met them or spoken to them. We don’t know if this is truly Julian Barnes last book, but when he says, “I shall miss you,” it feels real. And corny though it sounds, I cried as if I had lost a friend. My thanks to Alfred A. Knopf for enabling me to be an early reader and reviewer of an all-time favorite author in exchange for an honest review.
January 27, 2026
I sat, looking long into the setting night, as I turned the last page of this book. Something numb had climbed onto my throat and I sat massaging it gently, pressing this book against my chest for support.
On a day I was sick, this book came to me, like a pre-ordained meeting, and left me feeling many things.
Yes, this is Julian Barnes’ last book where he announces his diagnosis of blood cancer, along with all that which preceded and succeeded in its wake. One might hazard a guess that a news like this might have been handled with a fair share of maturity with a septuagenarian, who not only has an enviable oeuvre of literary achievements and wide array of knowledge sources but has also been witness to the departure of his beloved wife over a decade and a half ago to a similar cancer. And may be it did.
May be the maturity did play its part. In his anecdotal, engaging tone, Barnes journeys to-and-fro the years and recounts some of his choicest memories - the one where he was instrumental in bringing together his two closest friends, also ex-lovers from college, post forty years; also, the one where he forges a thick friendship with a Jack Russell and rocks his head until he falls into his last sleep.
And then there was gratitude. Gratitude for the love his books have received across the world; for finding true love despite the harsh mendacities of today’s world; for kind (and occasionally, funny) hospital staff that recognizes him and takes good care of him; for great writers he has had the privilege to read and learn from.
Finally, there was sadness. Not the kind that pulls one down but one that makes one stand up, alert, and exercise extra caution in doing the important things because now, it is almost time to say goodbye.
Goodbyes. They are like no other. Because when they enter a scene, they exit with a void that doesn’t get filled. Instead, in the void they form, memories start to fill in; with some force even the most-advanced dynamometers cannot measure. And all at once, the person departed is there, their identity re-constructed by memories, and yet, and yet, they are not there.
So, before Barnes waves his final goodbye, here he is – sharing with us his fears of failure, his apprehensions of second loves, his losses in his friends’ deaths, his dreams of travelling on a frail body, his inability to conquer cancer and his plea for us to keep going.
On a day I was sick, this book came to me, like a pre-ordained meeting, and left me feeling many things.
Yes, this is Julian Barnes’ last book where he announces his diagnosis of blood cancer, along with all that which preceded and succeeded in its wake. One might hazard a guess that a news like this might have been handled with a fair share of maturity with a septuagenarian, who not only has an enviable oeuvre of literary achievements and wide array of knowledge sources but has also been witness to the departure of his beloved wife over a decade and a half ago to a similar cancer. And may be it did.
May be the maturity did play its part. In his anecdotal, engaging tone, Barnes journeys to-and-fro the years and recounts some of his choicest memories - the one where he was instrumental in bringing together his two closest friends, also ex-lovers from college, post forty years; also, the one where he forges a thick friendship with a Jack Russell and rocks his head until he falls into his last sleep.
And then there was gratitude. Gratitude for the love his books have received across the world; for finding true love despite the harsh mendacities of today’s world; for kind (and occasionally, funny) hospital staff that recognizes him and takes good care of him; for great writers he has had the privilege to read and learn from.
Finally, there was sadness. Not the kind that pulls one down but one that makes one stand up, alert, and exercise extra caution in doing the important things because now, it is almost time to say goodbye.
Goodbyes. They are like no other. Because when they enter a scene, they exit with a void that doesn’t get filled. Instead, in the void they form, memories start to fill in; with some force even the most-advanced dynamometers cannot measure. And all at once, the person departed is there, their identity re-constructed by memories, and yet, and yet, they are not there.
So, before Barnes waves his final goodbye, here he is – sharing with us his fears of failure, his apprehensions of second loves, his losses in his friends’ deaths, his dreams of travelling on a frail body, his inability to conquer cancer and his plea for us to keep going.
“But I rarely catch your replies – you’re sitting on my deaf side, I’m afraid.I won’t stop looking, I promise.
Still, I hope you’ve enjoyed our relationship over the years. I certainly have. Your presence has delighted me – indeed, I would be nothing without you. So, I’ll just rest my hand briefly on your forearm – no, don’t stop looking – and then slip away. No, don’t stop looking.”
Review of advance copy received from Netgalley
I was fully absorbed in, and entirely entertained by, Julian Barnes latest (and unfortunately last) novel. It is vintage Barnes, interested in memory and its unreliability, in stories and the gaps in them.
It struck me that he asks many of the same questions as Ian McEwan in his latest novel: what if we could know everything? What if we could remember everything? Wouldn't it be too much? Where McEwan looks at it from a technological perspective, Barnes takes a neurological view (and a literary view drawing as usual on a range of French authors). But both reach the same conclusion.
Departure(s) consists of five parts: a theoretical start about 'involuntary autobiographical memories (IAM)', then the highly entertaining story of two lovers who reunite after 40 years with Julian acting as a matchmaker, and finally a coda that manages to be both light and deeply emotional.
I also had an IAM while reading Departure(s), as I vividly remembered reading the Sense of an Ending on a long train journey in 2012 and rediscovering the pleasure of reading.
Goodreads tells me I've read 8 of his books since (Barnes says in the novel that he wrote 44 so there are enough left).
Although part of me doesn't exclude there may be another Barnes in the future - after all he is nothing if not unreliable (and this one felt particularly fresh and sharp), I am grateful for the fabulous reading experiences he's given me - surprising, elegant, playful, precise and smart.
It struck me that he asks many of the same questions as Ian McEwan in his latest novel: what if we could know everything? What if we could remember everything? Wouldn't it be too much? Where McEwan looks at it from a technological perspective, Barnes takes a neurological view (and a literary view drawing as usual on a range of French authors). But both reach the same conclusion.
Departure(s) consists of five parts: a theoretical start about 'involuntary autobiographical memories (IAM)', then the highly entertaining story of two lovers who reunite after 40 years with Julian acting as a matchmaker, and finally a coda that manages to be both light and deeply emotional.
I also had an IAM while reading Departure(s), as I vividly remembered reading the Sense of an Ending on a long train journey in 2012 and rediscovering the pleasure of reading.
Goodreads tells me I've read 8 of his books since (Barnes says in the novel that he wrote 44 so there are enough left).
Although part of me doesn't exclude there may be another Barnes in the future - after all he is nothing if not unreliable (and this one felt particularly fresh and sharp), I am grateful for the fabulous reading experiences he's given me - surprising, elegant, playful, precise and smart.
January 30, 2026
I hadn’t realized until I finished that I’d been reading this supposed final book by Julian Barnes on his 80th birthday. I found that out when I checked Wikipedia to see if he was still alive. I think “Jules” would find that funny as he spends a good few paragraphs talking about how we begin to lose track of who is still alive as we get older.
Much of this book is about memory, aging, and whether or not one is or ought to be raging against that final departure which is inevitable for all of us.
I think the first section on memory and Proust’s madeleine was a bit tedious for me but I’m glad I continued on as I found his discussion of his cancer diagnosis quite interesting (I’m a former oncology nurse) and certainly his “re-kindler” friends and their failure was very cleverly observed.
The end returns again to memory but it’s also a farewell and I appreciated his “departing” words and that writing too.
Happy 80th Birthday Jules!
(Thank you to NetGalley for an ARC in exchange for my honest review.)
Much of this book is about memory, aging, and whether or not one is or ought to be raging against that final departure which is inevitable for all of us.
I think the first section on memory and Proust’s madeleine was a bit tedious for me but I’m glad I continued on as I found his discussion of his cancer diagnosis quite interesting (I’m a former oncology nurse) and certainly his “re-kindler” friends and their failure was very cleverly observed.
The end returns again to memory but it’s also a farewell and I appreciated his “departing” words and that writing too.
Happy 80th Birthday Jules!
(Thank you to NetGalley for an ARC in exchange for my honest review.)
November 19, 2025
I need people to read this; I am SOBBING and need to know if that is normal.
January 27, 2026
"naš mentalni prostor biva ispunjen živim davnašnjim prizorima, potom sledi duga praznina, pa besmislena sadašnjost, dok se gomilaju dani koji se ponavljaju, i pometnja. naš život, drugim rečima, svede se na priču s velikom rupom u sredini."
teško sam podnela ovu knjigu. kao da je Barns bio pored mene dok sam je čitala, trudio se da me nasmeje (onim svojim prepoznatljivim humorom), a jedva se suzdržavao da se ne rasplače. Ostala mi je velika knedla u grlu. ma, srce mi se zgrčilo. verujem da će je svako ko voli Barnsa tako doživeti. 🫀
teško sam podnela ovu knjigu. kao da je Barns bio pored mene dok sam je čitala, trudio se da me nasmeje (onim svojim prepoznatljivim humorom), a jedva se suzdržavao da se ne rasplače. Ostala mi je velika knedla u grlu. ma, srce mi se zgrčilo. verujem da će je svako ko voli Barnsa tako doživeti. 🫀
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February 5, 20263,5*
Knyga apie senėjimą, mirtį, ligą, apie mus apgaudinėjančią atmintį, apie meilę...su dažnais nuklydimais į literatūrą - pas Floberą, Prustą...
Autoriui pandemijos pradžioje buvo diagnozuota reta kraujo vėžio forma. Ir JB pristatė šią knygą, kaip paskutinę. Ir taip, ji liūdna, bet ne verkšlenanti. Tokia susitaikanti su išėjimu - tiek iš literatūros lauko, tiek iš gyvenimo. Taiklus pavadinimas.
Kodėl toks vertinimas? Nžn., tiesiog tikėjausi kažko daugiau, kažko stipriau "/ Bet, gal čia toks klišinis mąstymas, jog prieš mirtį žmogus (pa)sako kažką svarbaus/reikšmingo. Štai pats JB man sako - "Pasakyti kažką išmintingo, tai nereiškia pasakyti tiesą". O ta tiesa gal ir mirštančiam nelabai aiški.
Beje, ne romanas čia. Su autofikcija irgi nelabai norisi sutikti. Man knyga skaitėsi kaip literatūriniai memuarai.
Knyga apie senėjimą, mirtį, ligą, apie mus apgaudinėjančią atmintį, apie meilę...su dažnais nuklydimais į literatūrą - pas Floberą, Prustą...
Autoriui pandemijos pradžioje buvo diagnozuota reta kraujo vėžio forma. Ir JB pristatė šią knygą, kaip paskutinę. Ir taip, ji liūdna, bet ne verkšlenanti. Tokia susitaikanti su išėjimu - tiek iš literatūros lauko, tiek iš gyvenimo. Taiklus pavadinimas.
Kodėl toks vertinimas? Nžn., tiesiog tikėjausi kažko daugiau, kažko stipriau "/ Bet, gal čia toks klišinis mąstymas, jog prieš mirtį žmogus (pa)sako kažką svarbaus/reikšmingo. Štai pats JB man sako - "Pasakyti kažką išmintingo, tai nereiškia pasakyti tiesą". O ta tiesa gal ir mirštančiam nelabai aiški.
Beje, ne romanas čia. Su autofikcija irgi nelabai norisi sutikti. Man knyga skaitėsi kaip literatūriniai memuarai.
January 21, 2026
Is it fiction or is it non-? With an author as sly as Barnes, hard to tell. Nonetheless, with its Proustian references and trips to the past with characters (or is it him?) from his Uni days, does it really matter? I listened to the entire work in one sitting as he narrated it himself. And the ending made me cry.
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February 3, 2026Hvala na svemu Žil, živ bio.
February 8, 2026
This book reads as a memoir (but may be literary fiction or a combination of the two). The narrator is a writer named Julian who tells us about his role in bringing two friends together, once during university days, and another time more recently. After watching their relationship fail initially, Julian helps them rekindle their romance forty years later. It also includes his diagnosis with an incurable but manageable form of leukemia. Major themes are memory (especially involuntary memory), love, and the eventual decline of the body through age and illness.
Barnes breaks a promise never to write about his friends by waiting until after they have died. The narrative deals with gaps in memory, particularly the missing forty years between the couple's two relationships. While reading, I found myself pondering the accuracy (or inaccuracy) of our memories. It is intimately written, as if the author is speaking directly to the reader. Julian Barnes is one of my favorite authors and I am sad to know that this will be his last published book.
4.5
Barnes breaks a promise never to write about his friends by waiting until after they have died. The narrative deals with gaps in memory, particularly the missing forty years between the couple's two relationships. While reading, I found myself pondering the accuracy (or inaccuracy) of our memories. It is intimately written, as if the author is speaking directly to the reader. Julian Barnes is one of my favorite authors and I am sad to know that this will be his last published book.
4.5
February 2, 2026
А тут Барнз такий грайливий, щоб не сказати жовіальний, не дивлячись на загальний прощавальний посил. Помірно іронічний, прямо сподобався. Щоб не плакати я сміялася - з цієї опери.
Тож прощавайте, містере Барнз, сподіваюсь відбуття затримається.
Тож прощавайте, містере Барнз, сподіваюсь відбуття затримається.
January 24, 2026
És estar en les millors mans.
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January 10, 2026A beautiful final farewell from Barnes. He is saying goodbye to storytelling, reading, remembering and living here. I wept at the end of this book. Barnes’s work has meant a lot to me over the years and as much as I wish this wasn’t goodbye, it’s a perfect departure.
February 9, 2026
Estaba terminando el libro mientras aterrizaba en madrid y vi a lo lejos los cuatro rascacielos como único simbolo verdaderamente reconocible de la ciudad desde el aire. Pensé: qué intento tan burdo de relevancia, vaya imagen vulgar. Era una frase “de escritor”, mía pero convencida de sí misma, elevada y voluntariosa. Barnes logra este tipo de espíritu en quien lo lee: nos convence de que nuestras ideas más humildes y nuestras pequeñeces banales están llenas de literatura y que merecen tener una forma determinada. No sé si es algo bueno o todo lo contrario. Pero gracias. Ha sido un placer.
February 1, 2026
Un híbrido más de Barnes que supone un final de vida literaria muy digno, y supongo que, para sorpresa de nadie, hace match con "Nada que temer" y "Niveles de vida", trilogía que recomendaría a todo aquel que guste de las "Meditaciones" de Marco Aurelio. Al igual que éste, sabe pertrechar de montones de herramientas para afrontar el sufrimiento, la madurez y la vejez, solo que con más guasa. Me quedo con la frase calmante que sobrevuela la estructura del libro: "Es solo el universo, haciendo lo suyo."
Aunque he llevado mal durante la lectura la interpelación constante al lector (por no hablar de las páginas y páginas sobre la terapia de pareja de los amigos del autor), en la página final todo cobra sentido. Qué emotivo, por dios, al borde de las lágrimas me ha dejado.
Espero que todo esto de la última novela no sea otra filfa publicitaria y que Barnes no se desdiga. Me sentiría engañada si volviese, como hacen los toreros, porque, ha estado bien. Muy bien.
Aunque he llevado mal durante la lectura la interpelación constante al lector (por no hablar de las páginas y páginas sobre la terapia de pareja de los amigos del autor), en la página final todo cobra sentido. Qué emotivo, por dios, al borde de las lágrimas me ha dejado.
Espero que todo esto de la última novela no sea otra filfa publicitaria y que Barnes no se desdiga. Me sentiría engañada si volviese, como hacen los toreros, porque, ha estado bien. Muy bien.
January 29, 2026
“That’s what I’ve been after all my writing life: the whole story.” Barnes has been a favourite author of mine since my early twenties. He insists this novella will be his final book. It’s a coy fiction–autofiction mixture featuring the same fixations as much of his work: how time affects relationships and memory, how life gets translated into written evidence, and how we make peace with death. The narrator is one Julian Barnes, a writer approaching age 80 and adjusting to a recent diagnosis of a non-life-threatening blood cancer. The ostensible point is to retell his Oxford University friends Stephen and Jean’s two-stage romance: they were college sweethearts but married other people; then Julian reintroduced them in their sixties and they married – but it didn’t last.
He parcels out bits of this story in between pondering involuntary autobiographical memory (IAM), his “incurable but manageable” condition, and his possible legacy. He hopes he’ll be exonerated due to waiting until Stephen and Jean were dead to write about them and adopting Jean’s old Jack Russell terrier, Jimmy. His late wife, Pat Kavanagh, is never far from his thoughts, and he documents other losses among his peers, including Martin Amis (d. 2023 – for a short book, this is curiously dated, as if it hung around for years unfinished). There are also, as one would expect from Barnes, occasional references to French literature. Confident narration gives the sense of an author in full control of his material. Yet I found much of it tedious. He’s addressed subjectivity much more originally in other works, and the various strands here feel like incomplete ideas shoehorned into one volume.
It’s a shame that I had just reread Talking It Over, a glistening voice-led novel of his from 1991, because it showed up the thinness and repetition of much of his recent work. (I even thought I spotted a reference to Talking It Over as Jean is warning Julian not to write about her and Stephen. “I’ll tell you the truth, and don’t you ever fucking use it, not even deeply disguised in some novel where I appear as Jeanette [Gillian?] and Stephen is Stuart.”) I see his oeuvre as a left-skewed bell curve: three of the first four novels are not worth reading and five of the last seven have also been dubious, but with much excellent material in between. It’s been a case of diminishing returns from The Sense of an Ending onwards, but I have many excellent rereads to look forward to.
If you’ve not read Barnes before, this wouldn’t be a bad place to start as you’ll get a taster of his trademark topics and dry wit, but delving into his back catalogue may well prove more rewarding.
Originally published on my blog, Bookish Beck.
He parcels out bits of this story in between pondering involuntary autobiographical memory (IAM), his “incurable but manageable” condition, and his possible legacy. He hopes he’ll be exonerated due to waiting until Stephen and Jean were dead to write about them and adopting Jean’s old Jack Russell terrier, Jimmy. His late wife, Pat Kavanagh, is never far from his thoughts, and he documents other losses among his peers, including Martin Amis (d. 2023 – for a short book, this is curiously dated, as if it hung around for years unfinished). There are also, as one would expect from Barnes, occasional references to French literature. Confident narration gives the sense of an author in full control of his material. Yet I found much of it tedious. He’s addressed subjectivity much more originally in other works, and the various strands here feel like incomplete ideas shoehorned into one volume.
It’s a shame that I had just reread Talking It Over, a glistening voice-led novel of his from 1991, because it showed up the thinness and repetition of much of his recent work. (I even thought I spotted a reference to Talking It Over as Jean is warning Julian not to write about her and Stephen. “I’ll tell you the truth, and don’t you ever fucking use it, not even deeply disguised in some novel where I appear as Jeanette [Gillian?] and Stephen is Stuart.”) I see his oeuvre as a left-skewed bell curve: three of the first four novels are not worth reading and five of the last seven have also been dubious, but with much excellent material in between. It’s been a case of diminishing returns from The Sense of an Ending onwards, but I have many excellent rereads to look forward to.
If you’ve not read Barnes before, this wouldn’t be a bad place to start as you’ll get a taster of his trademark topics and dry wit, but delving into his back catalogue may well prove more rewarding.
Originally published on my blog, Bookish Beck.
January 30, 2026
It pains me that as I amble at 'pre-terminal' age (in the sense that we're all pre-terminal aren't we) toward my own Departure(s), I shall no longer enjoy the anticipation of the next Julian Barnes novel, as this is, he firmly declares, his last. I am aware that shortly I shall exist as only a shelf-ful of books plus a cluster of Biographical Anecdotes.” [156]
A pity.
As the years have gone on I've had the sense that I've been aging at an ever quickening pace, close to drawing even with Mr. Barnes. And though we've lived cosmically distant lives, whether Mr Barnes knows it or not (I suspect not), we've shared countless experiences, stirred memories, though separated in time and space as we are, shared not by tea and sweets but through the agency of paper and ink: loves, losses, friends found and lost, disappointments and regrets. Human frailty, memory, aging and death. When you've lived more than six decades you begin to know what Mr Barnes is talking about in a very personal way. You've walked different yet similar paths.
Fortunately Julian Barnes has left – correction, will leave (don't want to rush him off stage prematurely) us with over twenty-five books to return to again and again, many of which I look forward to reading for the first time.
As you've noticed, this isn't really a review. If you've read 'Sense of An Ending' or 'The Only Story' or 'Levels of Life' – well, then you know Barnes. You know his wit and easy manner, his erudition. A character in 'Departure(s)' chastises him for his 'hybrid' style, mixing real with made-up people. “I think it's a mistake. You should do one or the other.”
I love his hybrid style.
I imagine myself being rushed to hospital, breathless, speechless, perhaps even unconscious. They see this old geezer and are coming down on the side of 'straight on to end-of-care' when one of them notices that I am wearing a lapel badge. It reads: BUT I WON THE BOOKER PRIZE. And I am reprieved. [57]
A pity.
As the years have gone on I've had the sense that I've been aging at an ever quickening pace, close to drawing even with Mr. Barnes. And though we've lived cosmically distant lives, whether Mr Barnes knows it or not (I suspect not), we've shared countless experiences, stirred memories, though separated in time and space as we are, shared not by tea and sweets but through the agency of paper and ink: loves, losses, friends found and lost, disappointments and regrets. Human frailty, memory, aging and death. When you've lived more than six decades you begin to know what Mr Barnes is talking about in a very personal way. You've walked different yet similar paths.
Fortunately Julian Barnes has left – correction, will leave (don't want to rush him off stage prematurely) us with over twenty-five books to return to again and again, many of which I look forward to reading for the first time.
As you've noticed, this isn't really a review. If you've read 'Sense of An Ending' or 'The Only Story' or 'Levels of Life' – well, then you know Barnes. You know his wit and easy manner, his erudition. A character in 'Departure(s)' chastises him for his 'hybrid' style, mixing real with made-up people. “I think it's a mistake. You should do one or the other.”
I love his hybrid style.
I imagine myself being rushed to hospital, breathless, speechless, perhaps even unconscious. They see this old geezer and are coming down on the side of 'straight on to end-of-care' when one of them notices that I am wearing a lapel badge. It reads: BUT I WON THE BOOKER PRIZE. And I am reprieved. [57]
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January 26, 2026Всъщност текстът може да се разглежда като своеобразен финален жест на писателя, тихо сбогуване със сигурността в собственото тяло, с контрола над живота и с увереността, че литературата може да съхранява паметта. Барнс създава разказ, който едновременно е личен, философски, интимен и дистанциран. Сбогуването рядко идва с ясен знак. То не е миг, а процес, който започва много преди думата “сбогом” да бъде изречена. В “Отпътуване” Джулиан Барнс показва, че истинската раздяла не настъпва в момента на тръгването, а тогава, когато осъзнаем, че нещо в нас вече се е променило необратимо.
Отпътуването е състояние на преходност, в което човек вече не принадлежи напълно на стария си живот, но и още не знае какъв ще бъде новият. “Сбогом” се казва насаме, в сбогуването няма ритуал, няма публика и утеха. Пътуването се превръща в метафора на раздялата със здравето и с предишното „аз", като показва, че всяко физическо или умствено отслабване променя и възприятието за света. В този смисъл текстът е не просто разказ за болестта, а за самия процес на оттегляне- тихо, без драматични жестове, но с дълбока интелектуална честност. Този жест на писателя е едновременно интимен и сдържан, той не търси съчувствие, а оставя читателя да осъзнае, че всяко тяло, всеки спомен и всяка лична история са временни.
“Отпътуване” е последното литературно сбогуване на Барнс не с конкретни хора, а с илюзията, че можем да фиксираме живота чрез разказ. Моментът да кажем сбогом идва тогава, когато разберем, че задържането е по-болезнено от пускането. Най-истинските сбогувания не се изричат на глас, те се случват вътре в нас- тихо, необратимо, болезнено като самото време.
“Отпътуване” не е роман за любовта, защото центърът на текста не са отношенията между хората, а преживяването на края-на здравето, на сигурността и на илюзията за контрол над собствения живот. Любовта присъства само периферно, като фон, докато водещи теми са болестта, нетрайната памет, моментът на сбогуване, които превръщат текста във философско размишление за човешката крехкост, а не в разказ за емоционална връзка.
Барнс използва любовната история на Стивън и Джийн като маска, която му позволява да говори за телесна слабост, страх и промяна, без да превръща текста в автобиография или сантиментална изповед. Любовната връзка е загатната, но не развита и служи, за да изрази как болестта и времето променят начина, по който хората се гледат и разбират. Любовта е фон, върху който изпъкват загубата, мълчанието и неловкостта. Връзката между тях е метафора на сбогуването, а то невинаги е драматично и невинаги е взаимно осъзнато. Понякога единият вече е „отпътувал“ физически или вътрешно, докато другият още стои на прага. Това не е любовен конфликт, а екзистенциален.
Защо да прочетете “Отпътуване”?
За мен това не е роман, а по-скоро есеистичен текст, в който художественият разказ е подчинен на философски и автобиографичен размисъл за болестта, паметта и сбогуването, а меланхолията е основното му звучене. Това е текст, който ще ви подготви не за любов, не за героизъм, а за онези моменти, които идват тихо, неумолимо и неизбежно-отслабването на тялото, объркването на паметта, нуждата да се сбогуваш с предишното си аз, а може би и с тези, които обичаш, заради които си живял и си се вдъхновявал, борил, оцелявал. Това не е текст, който се харесва, а който остава. Четеш го не за да избягаш от живота, а за да разбереш какво значи да го пуснеш, когато дойде моментът.
February 7, 2026
3,75
«Tengo la impresión de que los humanos estamos tan enfrascados en vivir que olvidamos que somos humanos —o cuando menos olvidamos lo que significa serlo, y cuáles son las consecuencias—, y, por consiguiente, lo que significa estar muertos».
Mi querido Julian, ¡cómo te vamos a echar de menos! Tengo la suerte de que aún me quedan varios libros tuyos por leer porque, como siempre, me dejas con ganas de mucho más.
No sé cómo lo haces, pero este libro —con regusto melancólico pero esperanzador e irónico, como nos tienes acostumbrados— me ha dolido un poco. Quizás es porque abordas la muerte con la cercanía que te dan tus 80 años —y la dureza de tu enfermedad, sobre todo en tu día a día. Pero me ha fascinado cómo hablas de ella sin miedo, pero con respeto, asumiendo que este será tu último libro porque no quieres que te pille escribiendo, dejando inacabado tu manuscrito.
También me ha encantado tu honestidad, que la muestras siempre, pero que esta vez brilla más que nunca. Porque, incluso lo que es ficticio, parece real. Y puede que revelar los detalles de la relación entre tus amigos me parezca mal porque incumplimiste la promesa que les hiciste de hablar sobre ellos, pero me ha hecho pensar en el amor en la madurez: en lo que estamos dispuestos —o no— a dar y recibir.
Me has hecho reflexionar, una vez más, sobre el gran papel que tiene la memoria para definir nuestra identidad especialmente al final de la vida porque, si no recordamos lo que somos, lo que hemos sido, ¿qué nos queda? ¿En quiénes nos convertimos?
Y, ¿qué me dices de contradecir a Proust? Creo que hay que tener, como mínimo, algo de valentía para hacerlo, pero solo tú podías hacerlo de forma tan inteligente, con ironía y lógica.
En fin, perdona por hablarte como si fuera tu amiga, pero siento como si te conociera, incluso más que a gente a la que creo que conozco bien. Te deseo unos últimos años de literatura —aunque no sea escrita—, tranquilidad y mucha paz.
«Tengo la impresión de que los humanos estamos tan enfrascados en vivir que olvidamos que somos humanos —o cuando menos olvidamos lo que significa serlo, y cuáles son las consecuencias—, y, por consiguiente, lo que significa estar muertos».
Mi querido Julian, ¡cómo te vamos a echar de menos! Tengo la suerte de que aún me quedan varios libros tuyos por leer porque, como siempre, me dejas con ganas de mucho más.
No sé cómo lo haces, pero este libro —con regusto melancólico pero esperanzador e irónico, como nos tienes acostumbrados— me ha dolido un poco. Quizás es porque abordas la muerte con la cercanía que te dan tus 80 años —y la dureza de tu enfermedad, sobre todo en tu día a día. Pero me ha fascinado cómo hablas de ella sin miedo, pero con respeto, asumiendo que este será tu último libro porque no quieres que te pille escribiendo, dejando inacabado tu manuscrito.
También me ha encantado tu honestidad, que la muestras siempre, pero que esta vez brilla más que nunca. Porque, incluso lo que es ficticio, parece real. Y puede que revelar los detalles de la relación entre tus amigos me parezca mal porque incumplimiste la promesa que les hiciste de hablar sobre ellos, pero me ha hecho pensar en el amor en la madurez: en lo que estamos dispuestos —o no— a dar y recibir.
Me has hecho reflexionar, una vez más, sobre el gran papel que tiene la memoria para definir nuestra identidad especialmente al final de la vida porque, si no recordamos lo que somos, lo que hemos sido, ¿qué nos queda? ¿En quiénes nos convertimos?
Y, ¿qué me dices de contradecir a Proust? Creo que hay que tener, como mínimo, algo de valentía para hacerlo, pero solo tú podías hacerlo de forma tan inteligente, con ironía y lógica.
En fin, perdona por hablarte como si fuera tu amiga, pero siento como si te conociera, incluso más que a gente a la que creo que conozco bien. Te deseo unos últimos años de literatura —aunque no sea escrita—, tranquilidad y mucha paz.
February 1, 2026
Малко хаотична книга на пръв поглед, но всъщност има връзка между разсъжденията на Барнс върху паметта и Пруст, миналото, смъртта, както и двамата герои, които се събират след 40 години. Последната му книга, трогателно сбогуване и с нас, читателите, а финалните изречения искрено ме разчувстваха.
Както много точно е посочила Любов Петрова, това не е книга за първа среща с автора, а за ценители на творчеството му.
Както много точно е посочила Любов Петрова, това не е книга за първа среща с автора, а за ценители на творчеството му.
January 27, 2026
Hvala Barnsu na svakoj napisanoj reči.
Hvala Geopoetici što ga je prepoznala i godinama objavljivala.
I hvala mojoj profesorki srpskog što se nije držala kurikuluma, pa me je rano upoznala s njim.
Nedostajaće.
Hvala Geopoetici što ga je prepoznala i godinama objavljivala.
I hvala mojoj profesorki srpskog što se nije držala kurikuluma, pa me je rano upoznala s njim.
Nedostajaće.
January 17, 2026
Julian Barnes shares his final novel with us as he wraps his illustrious writing career. More auto/non fiction than novel, it’s a somber treat to read his reflections on death, aging and “here we go again”-ism. I’m a sucker for reflective musings on aging and death. So this slim volume lands smack dab in the center of my wheelhouse. The story within a story just adds to the rumination as we get to follow along as two of his university friends romantically reconnect 40 years later. I think this interlude works well with the subject matter. As we age, aren’t we constantly thinking about the one who got away? Imagining the life we’d have lived had we made different decisions. What if we could spin the block again a lifetime later?
How terrifying, how thrilling, how lucky to grapple with your inevitable, impending departure with stunning wit, unexpected humor and a sobering clarity.
Thanks for one last gift, Mr. Barnes.
Thank you NetGalley and Knopf for the advance reading copy in exchange for my honest review.
How terrifying, how thrilling, how lucky to grapple with your inevitable, impending departure with stunning wit, unexpected humor and a sobering clarity.
Thanks for one last gift, Mr. Barnes.
Thank you NetGalley and Knopf for the advance reading copy in exchange for my honest review.
January 26, 2026
You make me cry, Mr Barnes. This is more for the long-time Barnes fans (this is my seventh Barnes, as it turns out): a bit of fiction, a lot of autobiography, lots of long passages on memory and death – all in that friendly familiar voice that I’ve grown so used to. This is Barnes’s last book, but for me, there are lots of his I haven’t read yet, and so, even when he’s gone (“just the universe doing its thing”), I’ll be here to read and remember, and plenty of others as well.
December 20, 2025
4.5
This is a novel. Or: it’s literary nonfiction. On the spectrum from fiction to nonfiction, it definitely leans toward literary nonfiction—for me. But I still view it as a novel. Do you feel me?
The narrator is Barnes himself, reflecting on his cancer diagnosis, death, coming to the end of life, and memory. He also meditates on the relationship between two of his friends, who first meet as students at Oxford and reconnect decades later, exploring their complicated love story and conflicting personalities in both eras of their lives.
The book is also deeply metafictional—or is it, if it’s basically nonfiction despite being christened as fiction?—and Barnes examines fiction’s strengths and limitations, simultaneously admiring great works that came before, while gently picking certain ideas apart and highlighting their fallacies.
I loved it. What a beautiful book, both funny and sad. It will be Barnes’s last—and it has the depth and pathos you’d hope for in the final novel of someone who has been writing for over forty years.
•
(Longer review coming, but it won’t appear here.)
This is a novel. Or: it’s literary nonfiction. On the spectrum from fiction to nonfiction, it definitely leans toward literary nonfiction—for me. But I still view it as a novel. Do you feel me?
The narrator is Barnes himself, reflecting on his cancer diagnosis, death, coming to the end of life, and memory. He also meditates on the relationship between two of his friends, who first meet as students at Oxford and reconnect decades later, exploring their complicated love story and conflicting personalities in both eras of their lives.
The book is also deeply metafictional—or is it, if it’s basically nonfiction despite being christened as fiction?—and Barnes examines fiction’s strengths and limitations, simultaneously admiring great works that came before, while gently picking certain ideas apart and highlighting their fallacies.
I loved it. What a beautiful book, both funny and sad. It will be Barnes’s last—and it has the depth and pathos you’d hope for in the final novel of someone who has been writing for over forty years.
•
(Longer review coming, but it won’t appear here.)
Review of advance copy received from Netgalley
Thanks to NetGalley and Knopf, Pantheon, Vintage and Anchor for providing me with an eARC.
This was a very interesting book. It's mostly in a stream of consciousness/rambling thoughts format but in this case I think it worked well, given the author's situation. The title worked out quite well too -- to me it signified the departures in memory the author was trying to come to terms with given his impending departure from the world. It was sad and thoughtful all at once. This was a well written book and toed the line between fiction and non fiction. There were too many tangents for me to comfortably absorb the entire book but whatever I did, I enjoyed. I would recommend this to anyone looking for a book about last thoughts and coming to terms with one's life towards the end.
This was a very interesting book. It's mostly in a stream of consciousness/rambling thoughts format but in this case I think it worked well, given the author's situation. The title worked out quite well too -- to me it signified the departures in memory the author was trying to come to terms with given his impending departure from the world. It was sad and thoughtful all at once. This was a well written book and toed the line between fiction and non fiction. There were too many tangents for me to comfortably absorb the entire book but whatever I did, I enjoyed. I would recommend this to anyone looking for a book about last thoughts and coming to terms with one's life towards the end.
February 3, 2026
And so, Julian Barnes bids adieu to the literary world with one final swansong. He explicitly mentions that at the beginning of this narrative.
Two things to mention at this stage:
1) There will be a story- or a story within a story- but not just yet; and
2) This will be my last book.
And he reiterates that towards the end too.
As for me, I am now seventy-eight, and this will definitely be my last book- my official departure, my final conversation with you. Finishing my last book in my own time and then going silent at least has this useful consequence: it means that you will not be cut off- as Brian Moore feared- in the middle of writing. In this way, you are denying agency to death. Though in a very minor way, admittedly.
Before I got around to reading it I had evinced a sort of sadness to hear one of our great literary luminaries leaving us, dismayed and left without a beacon to turn ourselves to, and to end his career, though, in his own terms. It is indeed fitting that he bids goodbye on a high note. Indeed, this is a novel of the highest calibre, even by JB's own standards.
The writing is brilliant and taut, with not a word wasted. Rather than serving us with some story, he has here bred a heady concoction of a sort of love story that is rekindled at a later stage in life following an acquaintance developed when young, and a heady amalgam of digressive non-fiction. But that is just skimming the surface of this book. For the story pales in comparison to his lengthy digressions into the sense of mortality, of the infallibility of memory and the incontrovertible fate that death is. In seeking to affirm the place of memory in most of literature he returns to Proust's famous passage of involuntary memory from Swann's Way, in a word, he reiterates the incident of the Proustian madeleine in several places in the book.
So- to return to Proust- it now feels to us absolutely right and immutable that in 'A la Recherche' the gates of memory are unlocked by the crumbling of a madeleine into a cup of lime-flower tea, just as Proust's Aunt Leonie had done when he was a little boy. The madeleine is a perfect emblem because it is moulded in the shape of a pilgrim's shell, and Marcel is setting out on his own pilgrimage in search of lost time.
A fitting adieu to one of the greatest literary luminaries the modern world had to offer, and a brooding masterpiece that lends our thoughts to 'how the body fails us, whether through age, illness, accident or intent'.
It begins at the end of life- but it doesn't end there. Ultimately, it's about the only things that ever really mattered: how we find happiness in this life, and when it is time to say goodbye.
Two things to mention at this stage:
1) There will be a story- or a story within a story- but not just yet; and
2) This will be my last book.
And he reiterates that towards the end too.
As for me, I am now seventy-eight, and this will definitely be my last book- my official departure, my final conversation with you. Finishing my last book in my own time and then going silent at least has this useful consequence: it means that you will not be cut off- as Brian Moore feared- in the middle of writing. In this way, you are denying agency to death. Though in a very minor way, admittedly.
Before I got around to reading it I had evinced a sort of sadness to hear one of our great literary luminaries leaving us, dismayed and left without a beacon to turn ourselves to, and to end his career, though, in his own terms. It is indeed fitting that he bids goodbye on a high note. Indeed, this is a novel of the highest calibre, even by JB's own standards.
The writing is brilliant and taut, with not a word wasted. Rather than serving us with some story, he has here bred a heady concoction of a sort of love story that is rekindled at a later stage in life following an acquaintance developed when young, and a heady amalgam of digressive non-fiction. But that is just skimming the surface of this book. For the story pales in comparison to his lengthy digressions into the sense of mortality, of the infallibility of memory and the incontrovertible fate that death is. In seeking to affirm the place of memory in most of literature he returns to Proust's famous passage of involuntary memory from Swann's Way, in a word, he reiterates the incident of the Proustian madeleine in several places in the book.
So- to return to Proust- it now feels to us absolutely right and immutable that in 'A la Recherche' the gates of memory are unlocked by the crumbling of a madeleine into a cup of lime-flower tea, just as Proust's Aunt Leonie had done when he was a little boy. The madeleine is a perfect emblem because it is moulded in the shape of a pilgrim's shell, and Marcel is setting out on his own pilgrimage in search of lost time.
A fitting adieu to one of the greatest literary luminaries the modern world had to offer, and a brooding masterpiece that lends our thoughts to 'how the body fails us, whether through age, illness, accident or intent'.
It begins at the end of life- but it doesn't end there. Ultimately, it's about the only things that ever really mattered: how we find happiness in this life, and when it is time to say goodbye.
February 2, 2026
This masterpiece is Julian Barnes swan song. It's fiction that blends elements of memoir and essay that explores themes of memory, love and mortality narrated by a character named Julian.
There is a story within the story of a woman and a man, friends of Julian's, who fall in love when they are young and then after a fourty - year gap fall in love again when they become old.
Julian, reflects on mortality while dealing with a blood disorder and remembering his friends and fellow Authors: Christopher Hitchens and Martin Amis who have passed away.
This is not a sad book by any means but a novel of memories and a glorious pathway to a departure.
There is a story within the story of a woman and a man, friends of Julian's, who fall in love when they are young and then after a fourty - year gap fall in love again when they become old.
Julian, reflects on mortality while dealing with a blood disorder and remembering his friends and fellow Authors: Christopher Hitchens and Martin Amis who have passed away.
This is not a sad book by any means but a novel of memories and a glorious pathway to a departure.
February 4, 2026
Много хубава книга. По един типичен за Барнс фино-мъдър начин обговаря очакването на смъртта, темата за паметта и какво и как помним, болестта, писателството, четенето и... сбогуването.
Почти постоянно спирах четенето, за да мисля над думите му.
Почти постоянно спирах четенето, за да мисля над думите му.
January 21, 2026
4.5 stars
Review to follow.
Review to follow.
February 2, 2026
I've discovered that me and Julian Barnes don't connect well with each other. I listened to his The Sense of an Ending years ago and what saved it was the audiobook narrator. I found Departure to be wildly self-indulgent.
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